The Board Meeting
by Kes Cross
Summary: Death, the Death of Rats and the Three Other Horsemen of the Apocalypse find out just how bad that economic downturn's getting... Oneshot, much silly soddery ensues. Reviews very much appreciated. Ta.


Disc(World)laimer

I have _gotta _stop using that joke…

I don't own anything.

Really.

The repo men turned up this morning and took the lot. Characters, story, the whole shebang. I had to arm-wrestle the buggers for the keyboard…

Shortest disclaimer ever…

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"IS EVERYONE HERE?" Death clicked his way into the chamber, his bony feet tapping out a rather nifty tune on the echoing marble tiles. He caught himself just in time before he broke into a full-on rendition of 'Singin' in the Rain'…

"SQUEAK!" The Death of Rats nodded and pointed at the huge table in the centre of what seemed like an eternal expanse of black and white checkers. The walls – if you could call them that* - shifted and shimmered, causing anyone who looked at them for any length of time to develop a crashing migraine and quite probably rather a nasty nosebleed. The effort involved trying to keep the buggers in focus played havoc with the optical nerve.

Death grinned (as per usual) and clicked purposefully towards the three figures that sat around the table. Two chairs stood empty. A massive, ornately carved black throne with a rather fetching tibia motif and armrests carved into the form of knuckles was quite obviously the 'CHAIR OF DEATH'. Not in that anyone who sat in it died. It belonged to Death. Common mistake. Don't worry about it, everyone thinks that… Ikea had contacted him about the design – they were interested in doing a flat-pack version. The other chair was topped off with an egg timer – the sand in it perpetually running upwards, swirling and glittering in the frosty light and matching the walls in the eye-watering, headache-inducing stakes.

Death reached his throne and slapped down a pile of tomes on the table. Bony fingers drummed out a tattoo on the responsibly harvested pine tabletop**. "WHERE'S FATHER TIME?"

"He's running late." The massive figure sitting directly to Death's left shrugged. At least it looked like a shrug. With that much armour on it was difficult to tell…

"RUNNING LATE? THAT'S A METAPHYSICAL IMPOSSIBILITY! HE'S FATHER _TIME_, FOR OM'S SAKE!"

"Something about the latest time and motion study didn't leave him enough time to get all his motions in. I didn't press the matter." War shrugged again.

"WHY DO YOU KEEP SHRUGGING LIKE THAT?"

"New armour. Rubs like a bugger."

Death's face was unreadable.*** He sat down slowly, the infinitely deep blue pinpricks of light in his eye sockets boring into War like a pair of lasers. "THAT BRINGS ME RATHER NICELY TO THE PURPOSE OF THIS MEETING, GENTLEMEN."

"SQUEAK!"

"AND RATS." He patted the Death of Rats affectionately on the head. "IT HAS BEEN BROUGHT TO MY ATTENTION THAT DISCWORLD IS CURRENTLY GOING WHAT CAN BE DESCRIBED AS…A SLIGHT ECONOMIC ADJUSTMENT."

"Ah, right. That would be the credit crunch everyone's going on about. Can't see what all the fuss is about myself." Famine reached out a thin hand towards the plate of biscuits that sat in the middle of the table. His fingers hovered over the Last Jammy Dodger. Pestilence stared hard at his companion.

"You've had three of those already."

"You _do _know my official job title, right?"

"Greedy bugger?"

"Can it, pox-boy!"

"Any more of that and I'll bang your heads together!" War's voice boomed, echoing through the chamber. "Besides. That Jammy Dodger's mine, you bastards. I hate Custard Creams, you know that full well!" A steel-encased hand shot out towards the plate, the fingers fumbling to try and pick up the biscuit.

"GENTLEMEN! PLEASE!"

War, Famine and Pestilence froze in a tableau over 'The Last Jammy Dodger'.****

"Sorry."

"He started it!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"I SEE I'M GOING TO HAVE TO SETTLE THIS BEFORE WE MOVE ON THEN, HMMM?" Death reached out, curled bony fingers around the Last Jammy Dodger and gently handed it to the Death of Rats. The skeletal rodent did a little jig of happiness and clutched the enormous biscuit with both paws, gnawing happily at the confectionery. A small pile of crumbs began to form around his bony feet…

"NOW. WHERE WERE WE?"

"The credit crunch."

"Slight economic adjustments."

"Bloody rat's eating my Jammy Dodger!" Even muttering, War's voice was like a clap of thunder crashing through the chamber.

"WILL YOU JUST…_LET IT GO, WAR?" _Death sighed in exasperation. "_THANK _YOU!" He flipped open a tome. "I'VE JUST HAD THE LAST QUARTER'S FIGURES BACK FROM THE INFERNAL REVENUE SERVICES." Death frowned. It wasn't a pleasant sight…"WE'RE WAY OVER BUDGET."

"Not me. Known for my economic thrift, me." Famine smiled smugly. "On account of me not spending anything on _food_?" He grinned. "See what I did there?"

"You're kidding, right?" Pestilence glowered at the desperately thin form of Famine. "You eat us out of house and home! There was a perfectly good packet of sausages in the fridge back at the house with _my name on them _and, oh, colour me surprised! I opened up the fridge and, guess what? Bloody GONE!"

"How do you know it was me?"

"War's a veggie, Death doesn't like sausages and the Death of Rats can't reach the handle so, process of deduction, buddy." Pestilence glared.

"They were so far past the best before date they'd practically evolved! They weren't sausages, they were Darwinism!"

"Nothin' wrong with a little ageing. Gives them a more…_gamey _flavour."

"AAAAAAAND _ONCE AGAIN _WE'RE OFF TOPIC!" Death's voice had an annoyed edge to it. The Great Sausage Debate ended abruptly. "HARD TRUTH IS THAT ALL OF OUR DEPARTMENTS ARE OVERSPENDING, PARTICULARLY _YOURS,_ WAR."

"What? Oh, c'_mon_! Waddya expect? I've got an entire army to keep going!"

"CUTS HAVE TO BE MADE."

"You've already made a start, haven't you? You do this _all _the bloody time, Death!" Pestilence snorted in disgust. Somewhere, an outbreak of plague reeked havoc in an otherwise healthy population…

"HOW ABOUT WE START BY RENAMING YOUR DEPARTMENT _PETULANCE_?" Death glared at the festering face of his comrade, his patience worn palpably thin by the constant bickering. "IT'S EITHER MAKE CUTS OR…"

"Or _what_?"

"REDUNDANCIES."

A small choking sound came from the Death of Rats. War looked down at the bony rodent and shrugged again. "Sorry buddy. Last in, first out. You know how it works."

"THAT IS NOT THE ANSWER. I HAVE A LIST HERE OF PROPOSALS FROM THE IRS THAT COULD CUT OUR BUDGETS SIGNIFICANTLY AND AVOID ANY POTENTIAL REDUNDANCIES." Death handed out some beautifully engraved but barely readable tablets. The copy machine had been on the blink again…

"Cardboard cut-out trebuchets? Are you _kidding me?" _

"INSTEAD OF RENEWING THE TRIDENT CLASS CATAPULTS, LEONARD OF QUIRM THINKS THAT CONVINCINGLY DESIGNED AND REALISTIC LOOKING MOCK UPS COULD BE AS MUCH OF A DETERANT AS THE REAL THING."

"Bonkers. The bloke's absolutely bonkers."

"I HAPPEN TO AGREE WITH HIM."

"You would. And…_hang on, _what the hell's _this?" _War stabbed a furious finger at the tablet. "I'm only allowed to have one fight a _week_? That's bloody ridiculous! I've got three skirmishes and a full-on, no holds barred set-to lined up for Monday alone!"

"WE THINK THAT _THIS _MAY KEEP YOUR DEPARTMENT'S COSTS DOWN." Death handed War another tablet. "IN FUTURE, ALL BORDER DISPUTES, WMD CONFLICTS AND DICTATORIAL OVERTHROWS IN COUNTRIES WITH A POPULATION UNDER TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND WILL BE SETTLED BY AN 'ULTIMATE FIGHTER' COMPETITION OVER FIVE, THREE-MINUTE ROUNDS. TICKET SALES ALONE WILL COVER THE COSTS AND THE REVENUE IN TEE SHIRT AND BASEBALL CAP SALES SHOULD BRING IN A NICE LITTLE PROFIT. ANY COUNTRIES WANTING TO START A LARGER SCALE CONFLICT WILL HAVE TO PUT IN AN APPLICATION FORM…HANG ON, I'VE GOT ONE HERE…AH, HERE WE ARE," Death squinted at a tablet, "FORM THREE OH FIVE SEVEN DASH DEE."

Pestilence giggled. "Coo, they've really got the dogs out for you, haven't they?"

"DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE LAUGHING ABOUT, PESTILANCE. HAVE YOU _READ _YOUR SECTION?"

Pause…

"_BLOODY HELL_! You're _joking!" _Pestilence hurled the tablet down onto the table. "I've been working on that Hog-flu outbreak for _months_! It was gonna kill _millions_!"

"PANDEMICS COST TOO MUCH MONEY. IT'S BEEN DOWNGRADED TO A NASTY CASE OF THE SNIFFLES."

"Wait. I don't see anything here about my department." Famine was having trouble holding the tablet up, on account of the chronic sugar low he was currently suffering from a lack of Jammy Dodgers. "Oh, hang on, here we go. Whoa!" He looked up, horrified. "Selling at least 30% of the aid destined for famine victims in private markets? That's…that's…that's _immoral!"_

Death stared forlornly at his colleague. "NOBODY SAID IT WAS GOING TO BE FAIR, FAMINE. BESIDES. THAT LOT OVER IN THE SOMALIAN PLAINS HAVE BEEN DOING IT FOR YEARS. NO CHANGE THERE. WE'VE JUST UPPED THE FIGURES A TOUCH."

"Yes, but, but, but…" A stunned silence filled the room.

"That's a bit strong, Death." Even Pestilence balked at the last proposal. "I mean, yes, I've done some of my best work over there, but, _even so…"_

"And what about _your _department, Death?" War turned to his right (very slowly on account of him not having broken in his new armour properly yet) and glared at Death.

"DEATH IS THE ULTIMATE PRICE. I'M TAXED TO THE MAX."

"What, not even a reduction to a sickle rather than that bloody great scythe you cart around? _Nothing_?"

"I'VE MADE CUTBACKS, JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE!"

"No you haven't!"

"YES I HAVE. MY COMPANY VEHICLE'S BEEN DOWNGRADED."

"Not…not…they haven't decommissioned _BINKY_?"

"BEHOLD. OUR NEW, LOW EMISSION, ECONOMICALLY FRIENDLY TRANSPORTATION SYSTEMS…" Death waved a forlorn, bony hand towards the door. "YOU'RE NOT GONNA LIKE IT, GUYS…"

The doors of the chamber opened with a terrible creak and four, rather mangy donkeys wandered in….

"I wanna talk to my Union Rep."

"We don't have a Union, Pestilence."

"Well we bloody well SHOULD do!" He waved a putrid arm at the animals. "I mean, _c'mon! _Who the hell is going to take the Four Donkey Riders of the Apocalypse seriously?"

Chaos ensued. Donkeys honked, the Four Rather Pissed Off Harbingers of the Apocalypse shouted and yelled at each other and the Death of Rats had to dodge a hammer-fist encased in steel as War pounded what was left of the Last Jammy Dodger into dust…

In the midst of the bru-ha-ha, a bent figure in a loincloth wandered in. Father Time surveyed the uproar with one eyebrow raised. "Sorry I'm late boys. Did I miss anything?"

The End.

*Their official title was 'Walls of the Chamber of Death' but they answered to just 'Walls' to their friends

**Ebony is _so _last year and Death, being an ecologically friendly type of entity, was concerned about the rainforest and the impact that hardwood logging would have on Orang-utans. The Librarian was a personal friend of his…

*** No surprise there then…

**** Later to be immortalised by Leonard of Quirm on the Library ceiling of the Unseen University.


End file.
